


Shallow

by BlessedPicturesPresents



Series: Dreaming Wide Awake [2]
Category: Alan Wake (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Blood and Violence, Bloodplay, Handcuffs, Knifeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Photographs, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27619579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlessedPicturesPresents/pseuds/BlessedPicturesPresents
Summary: Scratch tries to impart some inspiration onto Wake.
Relationships: Mr. Scratch/Alan Wake
Series: Dreaming Wide Awake [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1961245
Kudos: 9





	Shallow

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Poets of the Fall song "Shallow".
> 
> Also, I reordered the series a little bit.

“You are giving me aaaaabsolutely nothing to work with, buddy,” Scratch sighs, shaking the polaroid, the motion making him bounce up and down ever so slightly where he sits comfortably on Wake’s pelvis. “Here I am, trying to make art and you’re just- you’re dead-fishing me here. _Cmon,_ Alan.”

Wake pointedly doesn’t look up. He stares at the wall’s ugly wood paneling. Scratch growls under his breath, shifting; he drops the photo onto the bed with the rest, leans over Wake, mouth against his ear.

“Are you listening, Alan?” Scratch murmurs. “You in there, writer boy?”

“Are you finished?” Wake responds with an over-loud, strained voice. His tone is shaky. He sounds scared, but like he’s trying to pretend he isn’t. Scratch finds that delicious.

“Of course not,” Scratch snaps, leaning back up again, gripping Wake’s chin in tight, angry fingers and pulling it up and forward. “You won’t look at me, I’m getting shit pictures and it’s your fault.”

“Alice never had a problem with that,” Wake growls, trying in vain to pull his face away from Scratch’s inhuman grip.

“Well, we can’t _all_ be perfect, now, can we.” Scratch grips even tighter, wonders how hard he has to press to make Wake bruise, briefly considers testing it. “Besides, I’m practicing. Look at me, I want at LEAST a few of these to come out properly.” Wake sneers at Scratch but does what he’s told; Scratch squints at him, clearly trying to ascertain if he can trust Wake not to turn his head again, and then slowly releases his face, raises an eyebrow, fiddling with his camera. “Jesus. Artists, I swear,” Scratch mutters under his breath, looking through the viewfinder. “Make sure you look at the camera, I like a good staring shot.”

“Great.” Scratch can see the temptation in Wake’s face, to turn his head away again; Scratch’s knife lays on his midriff, the tip ever so slightly covered in Wake’s blood, and Scratch touches the handle to remind Wake what’s at stake here. The cuts criss-crossing Wake’s chest aren’t deep, but they’re enough to bleed, and Scratch is sure they sting. Blood lazily seeps out of them, slides down his chest and stomach, stains the tatters of his clothes beneath him. Scratch had cut his shirt open, but at least spared the sweatshirt and tweed jacket. Whatever shirt that was, it was ruined now.

Scratch touches Wake’s chin again, angling his face left and right; he glances through the camera’s viewfinder again, raising an eyebrow. “Like that, just like that.” Wake grimaces as the camera clicks, whirring as it prints the picture. Scratch smiles at him, plucking the picture out to shake it, too.

“You know, you’re not supposed to shake those,” Wake says, voice hoarse.

“Didn’t ask, don’t care, it’s part of my method,” Scratch responds, cocking his head. “I don’t think we have enough cuts yet, do you?”

“What are you trying to accomplish?”

“Aesthetic, really.” Scratch sets the camera on the bed beside his own calf, retrieving his knife and pressing it against Wake’s skin again. Wake jerks, hissing breath out as Scratch lazily carves a thin line from his collarbone down his ribcage. “How’s it feel?”

“Like shit.”

“Aw, cmon.” Scratch rolls his hips against Wake’s once or twice, and he swears he can feel Wake starting to get hard. “I was looking for some more, I don’t know, writer-y description. ‘Like shit’. Do you hear yourself? Boring. Besides-” Wake grimaces up at him. “Don’t lie to me, Alan. Isn’t this fun for you too?”

“Fuck off,” Wake hisses, and Scratch clicks his tongue.

“Shame.” Another long cut, parallel to the newest; Scratch presses his fingers to the reddened skin, pulls one of the wounds open ever so slightly. More thick blood wells to the surface and he runs the flat of the blade against the length of the wounds, smearing blood across Wake’s skin and the blade alike. Wake’s eyes are starting to water from the pain, and Scratch is impressed: it only took, what, six? Seven cuts? before the writer started to cry. “Really didn’t think you’d last this long.”

“Before what,” Wake huffs out in one hurried breath, swallowing hard.

“I dunno. You cried or passed out or went into shock or something.” Scratch pushes the tip of the knife against Wake’s open lips, runs it along the top of Wake’s bottom teeth, licks his own. “Lick it.”

“Fuck you,” Wake nearly whispers, the words over-enunciated as he tries to speak around the knife without getting cut.

“Try again.” Scratch smiles cruelly, turns the blade so that the edge rests on Wake’s bottom lip and presses in, delights as it cuts into his flesh. Wake gasps, which makes his head move and the knife slide slightly deeper, leaving his mouth with a split, right across the fat bridge of his bottom lip. Scratch moans quietly, pulling the blade away to thumb the cut. Blood immediately leaks down Wake’s chin, onto Scratch’s thumb. Scratch pushes his thumb harder against the cut, teasing out more blood and shoving his thumb into Wake’s gaping mouth, sliding it against Wake’s tongue. “Theeeeere we go, good boy.”

Scratch pushes his thumb further into Wake’s mouth, until the writer accidentally swallows around it, grimacing. Scratch quickly pulls the thumb out, grabbing at his camera and taking a picture; Wake’s face is flushed, slight tears hugging the bottom lids of his eyes, and the bloody mess of his bottom lip is erotic in how it swells and bleeds, split and red against the softer pink of his tongue, blood defining each tooth as it invades his mouth. Scratch licks his own lips again and pulls at the picture, shaking it, feeling the way his hips rub against Wake’s body, the way his dick aches. Each cut gets him harder, but he can’t stop yet. Not yet. There’s still more fun to be had. “That one might actually have looked good, Alan! Good show.”

“I thought you wanted me to write?” Wake is breathless, unable to lift his voice above a near-whisper.

“I do!” Scratch replies brightly, looking at the picture. “But we both know you’re not writing, Alan, and I’m sick of waiting.” He coos at the picture, “oh, that is _gorgeous,_ ” and shows it to Wake. “Lookit that. Yknow what I think? The light’s really hugging your blood here, really making it _pop,_ and that hate your eyes is just,” he smacks his lips in a mock kiss, “perfect, really encapsulates our dynamic here. Don’t you think? Isn’t it great?”

“Amazing,” Wake sneers, turning his head away again to stare at the wood paneling.

“Aaanyways, I thought I’d give you a little- oh, I don’t know. Incentive?” Scratch flicks the photo down onto the bed with the rest, retrieves his knife and touches the point of it to Wake’s chin, ever so lightly tracing it down his throat towards his cut chest, cocking his head and humming as he tries to think of the word. “Break? Something like that. Gotta get those creativity cogs turning again, huh bestseller?” Scratch traces all the way down Wake’s torso, the knife coming to an uncertain stop on Wake’s hip bone. Scratch hums again. “No, incentive’s the right word, right?” Wake doesn’t respond, so Scratch cuts into the delicate skin there, dragging the cut out across to Wake’s other hip bone. Wake jerks, which makes the cut deeper; he tries so hard to stop moving, letting himself cry out instead.

“What happens if you kill me?” Wake pants. Scratch laughs.

“Like I’d be that clumsy. Or stupid. I’m not stupid, Alan, remember?” Scratch runs fingers across the cut, smears blood up Wake’s stomach, feels his dick get harder still. “Tempting as it is to just, drive this knife as deep into your fucking ribs as it’ll fit.. I’m not stupid.” Scratch takes a second to truly appreciate the show Wake’s giving him: his bare chest, slashed across multiple times, is heaving with heavy breath, skin bright red and splotchy, with darker red smears and stains from the blood as it lazily leaks out of him. His arms are out, spread wide and handcuffed to the bed’s edges; his jackets pushed open, with that heinous plaid sliced to shit and discarded around his form.. Scratch is practically drooling at it. Wake really is pretty when he wants to be, even with his face pointed away, tears still clinging to his eyelashes. “Just bored,” Scratch finally finishes the sentence, breathless. “Do you think it’d go through you? Hit the mattress?”

“This just entices me _not_ to write, asshole.” Wake sucks at his bottom lip and then winces, straining against the handcuffs.

“Oh, so you ARE enjoying yourself!” Scratch grins, gripping his bloody fingers on the camera once more. He takes a few more shots in relative silence, but he can’t stop himself from wriggling on Wake’s hips as his erection gets harder and harder to ignore. He wonders how it feels for Wake, if the writer’s feeling how hard Scratch is, how badly Scratch wants to hurt him. How badly Scratch wants to fuck him, smear that blood across his own chest, push fingers deeper into his body until he screams more, screams louder. Scratch lets out a slow breath, trying to steady his thoughts. “I knew it. You like this shit, don’t you, Wake? Describe it for me, give me something good. Do you like the way it hurts? Or the blood? That’s _my_ favorite part.”

Scratch doesn’t bother shaking these new ones as he takes them, simply tossing them onto the bed between each shot; the more he takes, the more photographs of Wake’s bloody, misused form surround the writer’s bleeding body, revealing themselves as the pictures finish setting. It’s really making quite a statement, if Scratch thinks so himself. He should send these in somewhere. He imagines the look on Alice’s face if she ever saw them, her husband restrained and bleeding, tortured, surrounded by proof of the violence getting worse and worse. Snapshots of pain. Ooh- that was good, Scratch thinks, that was real good. Maybe enough to name the series.

It’s starting to be too much. Scratch tosses the camera, and it clatters across the floor as he leans forward, settling on one arm propped up beside Wake’s head. Wake doesn’t look at him, but it doesn’t matter; he’s giving Scratch everything he needs right now. Those stubborn tears of Wake’s are finally sliding, fat and slow, down his cheeks. Scratch rubs his hips against Wake’s, needy, almost desperate, and he lets out a long, shaky breath, leaning down to suck at Wake’s bloody lip. Wake hisses, tries to pull away, but Scratch nibbles the cut just hard enough to make the writer stop moving, and slips his tongue into Wake’s mouth. The quiet, strangled moan caught in Wake’s throat vibrates against Scratch’s mouth, and he moans in return, grinning down at Wake as he pulls up from the kiss.

“I think you clean up pretty nice,” Scratch whispers, a line from a memory he knows they both share, as he grinds against Wake’s hips. Wake’s eyes flicker with rage, understanding, recognition- delicious, just delicious. “You won’t write for me because you want me to come back, don’t you? You like it when I put you in your place?” His other hand fumbles with his zipper, and he grips his throbbing dick with a need he can’t quantify. “You like it when I’m on you?”

“You make me sick,” Wake responds, but Scratch just laughs. Wake’s voice is shaky, and the more Scratch rolls his hips, the more he can feel Wake harden under him. “I write, you get what you want. I don’t write, you just get bored.”

“Bored? Maybe. I’m always bored, Alan. Always bored.” Scratch strokes himself slowly, watching Wake’s eyes as the tears slide out of them, as the fear and hatred and pain all combine together in a lust he can’t control, watching as the blood leaks out of his mouth and down his ruined lip. “But if you _don’t_ write, we can have more little moments like this. You. Me. This knife. Maybe next time I’ll bring some friends. Rope. Maybe next time I’ll fuck you on camera. Maybe next time I’ll make you cry for real.”

Wake spits blood into Scratch’s face, and Scratch laughs, bites Wake’s lower lip again; the writer jerks up, yelping with shock and pain, and Scratch moans into his mouth, his hand jerking faster. With the way Scratch is leaning over Wake, he’s able to hold himself up with his core strength, so he removes the hand leaning over Wake’s head and uses it instead to scratch down Wake’s fucked up torso, reopening the timid scabs, dull fingernails catching on the edges of each knife cut. Wake can’t help but cry out each time Scratch pulls at the torn skin, jerking against the handcuffs so hard they jingle and cut into his wrists. The way he struggles under Scratch just makes it all so much more enticing. Scratch pumps himself hard, panting over Wake’s face, watching the writer’s movements through half-lidded eyes.

“ _Fuck_ you,” Wake hisses emphatically, but his conviction just melts into a pained moan, his voice cracking. Now the tears are really starting, hot and fast down the sides of his face, eyes a watery gray instead of their usual shocking blue. He tries to look away again, put his attention anywhere but Scratch, but the pain keeps snapping his head back forward, and he writhes where he’s trapped on the bed, cries getting louder and more pained with each rake of Scratch’s fingernails.

Scratch can’t even hear the wet slap of his bloody hand on his dick over Wake’s moaning and crying, and that just makes him thrust into his own hand, rolling his hips over Wake’s unhappy, unwilling hard-on, wanting more and more. “Go on, Alan,” Scratch pants, “tell me I’m a monster. That’ll really do it for me.” Wake starts to say something, but Scratch moans deliciously over him as he cums hard, splattering cum across Wake’s cuts, licking across Wake’s throbbing bottom lip for a final sweat-soaked taste of blood.

Panting, shaking, Scratch hangs there over Wake for a moment, watching the writer’s bottom lip tremble, watching Wake try and keep it together. Scratch smiles at him, leans down to nibble at his earlobe.

“Beg me,” Scratch whispers, “beg me and I’ll get you off. Tell me you want it, Wake. Be _honest._ ”

* * *

Wake jerks up suddenly, uncomfortably slouched over in his desk chair. The room is stuffy and strangely hot, and he feels sore, limbs straining as he stands slowly. He must have fallen asleep. The typewriter sits silently in front of him on the desk, the page ready but bare. Wake leans against the desk, stretching himself out. He can feel the phantom cuts against his skin, and shivers, the nightmare taking it’s time to dissipate fully. He can hear Scratch’s words in his ears like the bastard just whispered them, feel the pain in his lip- he grabs his mouth, runs experimental fingers over his untouched lip. Of course nothing’s there. Why would there be anything, it was just a dream.

Wake swallows, standing up straight and glancing around. There’s nothing to suggest anything amiss. Wake walks carefully downstairs to get himself a glass of water, legs shaky, paranoia creeping over him; once he’s inspected enough of the cabin to be satisfied he’s alone, he sits back down at his desk- and then he notices it: a single photograph, a polaroid, tacked to the wood above his desk. A single photograph, of Wake, bloody, crying, surrounded by blurry bloody photographs; knife cuts streak across his chest and hips, bruises on his neck. There’s cum up his torso, and his hard, leaking dick lays across one of the cuts, needy and desperate. Someone’s covered it in clumsy, bloody hand-prints, and his pants pushed down to show the whole of him, his body humiliated and flushed.

At the bottom of the picture, in a serial-killer’s handwriting that he recognizes as a shaky version of his own: _Good luck on the writing._


End file.
